


Silver Tongue Turned Lead

by Fancifullauren



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Canon Era, M/M, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-01
Updated: 2013-04-01
Packaged: 2017-12-07 03:38:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/743767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fancifullauren/pseuds/Fancifullauren
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Response to kink meme: <i>Instead of killing him, the National Guard cut out Enjolras’s tongue. Lots of angst and h/c, please. </i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Silver Tongue Turned Lead

By some divine stroke of luck, eight of the men had escaped the barricade with their lives; one had escaped half of his former physical self. Enjolras, the grand orator and inspiration, still possessed his righteous fire, but lacked a means by which it could manifest itself. 

The battle at the barricade was brutal. He and his friends had fought to the best of their abilities; everyone survived. It was the leader, though, that was punished: his tongue had been sliced out. The silver instrument capable of converting a population of people to a cause of justice was now resting in the bellies of a dozen vile Parisian crows. The leader did not weep for himself. He instead ignored the situation altogether, and blood spewed out of his mouth when Combeferre found him bound yet triumphant in the top room of the Musain, where a Guardsman had tied him up and mutilated him so. He tried to speak, but wordless sounds were all he could form in front of a shocked Guide. 

Frustrated, Enjolras flailed against his bindings, and Combeferre freed him. 

The rest is history. 

Now, one week after the fateful day and in the South of France, the boys were holding their first meeting. 

Everyone still walked on eggshells around him. Combeferre and Courfeyrac tried desperately to relate to him, the latter even going so far as to hire him a willing prostitute (which he, of course, met with a scowl before promptly kicking her out), but the Chief still remained aloof and detached. 

The only one to treat him he as in days past was none other than the cynic. While Combeferre delivered the speech, Grantaire piped up in his cynical rant, all the while staring at an increasingly livid Enjolras. His two most trusted brothers made predictable arguments for him, but Grantaire chose to maintain eye contact with the leader all the while. Enjolras didn’t let the secret relief of this show on his face. _Someone still treated him the same._ True, once Grantaire started throwing classical allusions that Enjolras would have no trouble debunking, he slammed his fist on the table in frustration – an increasingly common feeling for him – but he was pleased. 

The next afternoon, after Grantaire had hauled himself out of bed and onto the streets in hopes of locating a decent pub, the young cynic was met with a particularly odd sight indeed: There, leaning over a low windowsill planter, was a smiling man smelling a flower. It was in this fleeting moment that the blond had sunlight shining off his golden hair and wore an expression of pure bliss. The window behind it suddenly swung open; Enjolras had only a moment to look guilty before a stunning young girl leaned out, plucked the flower between chubby fingers, and tucked it into his lapel. “If you like it so much,” she said, her voice a song, “Do wear it. You are a sight for sore eyes.” Enjolras smiled in response and kissed the small hand she held forth. He bowed his head in modesty when she cupped his jaw gently. He then turned to leave. 

Grantaire stood dumbstruck. Surely this was Enjolras’ twin, incarnate only to ruin his brother’s image by sniffing flowers and smiling at children! But his theory, albeit flawed to begin with, was dashed when he saw him nod at a passing Joly, who returned his greeting with a cheery, “Good afternoon, Enjolras!” 

The cynic ducked into the shadows, only to be seen again sipping ale that evening at a café. Enjolras didn’t pay him any attention when he came in and sprawled out at a table in the corner where the last lights of day shined through the open window. He spread his books and papers before beginning to write. 

Wasting no time, Grantaire waltzed up to where the golden god was sitting and plopped down next to him. 

“I saw that, you know,” he mused, taking a sip of his ale. 

Enjolras lifted an eyebrow. 

“Earlier today. With the flower.” 

The young revolutionary’s lips hardened into a thin line. He shook his head furiously. 

Grantaire sighed. “It’s alright to have emotions other than ‘revolution,’ you know,” he said, scooting his chair closer to Enjolras so he could put his feet up on the table. “I found it to be almost… innocent.” 

He scribbled angrily on the paper before handing it to Grantaire. 

_What would you know of “innocent”?_

Ah, so the mighty leader had not changed at all! He still was in possession of a sharp mind, now with a sharp pen to match. “Ah, Enjolras,” he droned, “You mistake me for a man of only vices! I have been known to indulge in the small pleasures of life. Prouvaire has taught me to appreciate the birds; Combeferre has educated me on the importance of interaction. It was Feuilly who introduced me to the pleasures of some spirit after a long day’s work. There’s more to me than cynicism and devotion, Apollo.” 

With a swift motion, Enjolras took back the paper, jotted down a single word, and returned it to him. 

_Devotion?_

“Surely you must know the reason why I come to your ridiculous meetings!” He roared, earning a sharp glare from the leader. “It isn’t just to argue with you – although, I must admit, I don’t resent that part. That’s just an added bonus, though. No, Enjolras, I come around because of you! Your passion is oxygen in my lungs.” He chuckles, bitter. “Though I think it might be better to say that you are like drink to me, as I cannot live without you and you cloud my thoughts so completely. That, and with as much as I smoke, oxygen is a novelty.” 

He stares back at the cynic, incredulous. “Why?” The voice, resonating so foreign and strange in his mouth, did not fit him well. It was awkward and ugly and pathetic – not at all like himself. 

“He speaks!” 

A feeling of relief washed over Enjolras that he could barely admit to himself, let alone the man sitting next to him. Everyone had been tiptoeing around him, ignoring his issue and conversing with him in writing, even when they were perfectly capable of talking themselves. It was like they felt as if they had to dumb themselves down to his level instead of communicating as they were used to. It infuriated him to no end. And here was Grantaire, who had nothing to prove and nothing to lose, pointing out his disability without shame, as if it were nothing to be ashamed of whatsoever. Rather, it was something normal. Grantaire would poke fun at him anyway; now was no different. This reflection of a time before revolution – had it really been only a week? – was comforting to him. “Mm-hmm.” 

The idea that Grantaire wasn’t entirely in it for the booze and the rousing discussions wasn’t surprising to Enjolras, as he had seen the longing glances for quite some time. The surprising thing was that Grantaire was now freely admitting it, and that he still felt it despite his new deformity that, in his own heart, he felt made him a worthless invalid. Undesirable. 

But to Grantaire, he would forever be the fearless leader he loved and venerated. 

He took another long gulp of ale. “My sincerest apologies, Enjolras, for what I am about to say might strike you as painfully desperate, but I have always loved your soul. Don’t you look at me like that, now, I’ve barely even begun. It’s your spirit that is beautiful; I find myself making a conscious effort not to be swept up into your well-planned rhetoric and jumping aboard your cause. Surely you need a voice of reason, and I am more than happy to be of service. But that passion soaring in you is what truly has me attached to you more than I could ever be anchored to anything in my life.” 

_I had no idea. Shall we return to my quarters and talk about this?_ He read. 

“I would like that very much, yes, though I’m afraid I’ll be doing the vast majority of the talking.” 

Grantaire saw Enjolras roll his eyes, but his smile betrayed him.

**Author's Note:**

> Kisses if you can tell me where I got the tile from ;)


End file.
